Gambiaj.com – (BANJUL, The Gambia) – In a world that rushes past its reminders, we forget that life itself is borrowed. Every sunrise is a loan; every breath a trust waiting to be returned. These reflections, drawn from a life of service and observation, explore the mercy hidden in mortality and the sobering truth that one day, the reminder will be us.

Life sends reminders—through funerals, songs, and silences. In such moments, the soul is called to attention, stripped of illusion, and invited to remember what truly matters. Each reminder speaks the same truth: death is certain, but legacy is a choice.

One reminder came for me on a dusty Gambian road. My vehicle spun, flipped, and rolled three times. The world collapsed into dust and noise—metal groaning, glass shattering—then silence. When it cleared, I was alive: shaken, humbled, and acutely aware that life can change in a heartbeat. That day, death whispered directly to me. It was not merely a warning; it was mercy—a reminder that time is never truly ours.

Since then, the reminders have multiplied: the funerals of friends, the tears of families, and the heavy quiet that follows every goodbye. As we grow older, the reminders grow louder—each one urging reflection, forgiveness, and gentler living. We move as though time were infinite, yet each day is a silent subtraction. In forgetting death, we lose the meaning of life.

Death humbles not only individuals; it humbles empires. I recall a journey to Blantyre, Malawi, in 1989 for a National Technical Cooperation Assistance Programme workshop with my friend Sola Mahoney. The city declared a holiday for the arrival of President Hastings Kamuzu Banda.

At Kamuzu Stadium, the air throbbed with drums and celebration. Crowds bowed—heads lowered, bodies bent—before Banda. He was revered, feared, and obeyed without question. In that moment, his power felt eternal. Yet today, Banda, like all of us, is gone. In his grandeur, I saw the illusion of permanence; in his grave, the truth of time.

History reinforces the lesson. Mansa Musa, once the richest man on earth, could not buy a single breath when his time came. Pharaohs, kings, and conquerors—all now dust beneath the sands. The Qur’an reminds us with quiet firmness: “Wherever you may be, death will overtake you, even if you dwell within towers of lofty construction.” (An-Nisa, 4:78)

Yet we live as though death will never find us. We quarrel over land, wealth, and power. We bury the living with envy and lies long before their bodies meet the soil. Why? Who are we trying to impress? Certainly not Allah, who sees through every mask. In Banda’s shadow, I saw the danger of unchecked power—a mirror for any nation that forgets how fleeting authority is.

Life itself is a trust. The Qur’an tells us, “He created death and life to test you as to which of you is best in deed.” (Al-Mulk, 67:2) Wealth, power, and prestige do not follow us into the grave. Only our deeds do.

My encounters with mortality have not been limited to that accident. There were quieter moments—unexpected turns, close calls, nights when the distance between breath and eternity felt thin. Some storms passed unnoticed; others left marks only I could feel.

Beyond these came deeper wounds: the loss of my parents, my son, my sisters, and dear friends. I have also seen death up close in public tragedy—the lifeless bodies of students during the April 2000 riots and the haunting scale of the Le Joola ferry disaster. I remember the silence after the shouting, the endless list of names read on the radio. Each encounter wounded the heart, yet each also reminded me that life is fragile, fleeting, and sacred.

From private loss to national tragedy, the lesson remains the same: life is temporary; service is sacred. Each departure whispers the same counsel—forgive, serve, live with purpose, and leave something good behind.

I first drafted these reflections after attending the funeral of the late Demba Ngaje Ndow. The quiet finality of that moment sharpened my awareness of how suddenly the chapters of our lives close. Mr. Moussa Bala Gaye attended that funeral. As he was leaving, I fetched his driver and led him to his vehicle, as one naturally would for a senior colleague, a big brother, and a former boss. At the time, it seemed unremarkable.

In hindsight, it lingers with meaning. Shortly thereafter, following Bala’s passing and after reading the deeply moving eulogy delivered by Abdoulie Touray, I felt compelled to bring these reflections into the open. Bala’s life and death reaffirmed a truth that runs through faith, history, and service alike: dignity is revealed not in how high one rises, but in how quietly one walks toward the end.

There were quieter moments, too, that revealed Bala’s character. On one occasion during my service, a minister then overseeing the Ministry of Finance instructed me to draft a letter approving a duty waiver for a particular company. My immediate supervisors were absent, and uneasy with the implications, I sought Bala’s guidance.

He listened carefully and insisted that before any such letter was issued, I should first send a formal minute to the minister, clearly stating that the instruction to proceed had come directly from him. Only then, Bala said, should the letter be released. He went further: if the minister declined to put the instruction on record yet still expected compliance, Bala assured me he would personally defend me at every level.

In that moment, he did more than advise. He shielded the institution, protected a junior officer, and demonstrated that true authority lies in standing between power and principle.

I must also record a personal word of gratitude to Pa Lawrence Mendy, a sincere and devoted friend and younger brother to Bala. In his constancy and quiet loyalty, he embodied a form of friendship that seeks no recognition yet provides strength when it matters most. Through him, one saw how Bala inspired not only respect but genuine affection across generations. Character is often reflected in the company one keeps and the bonds nurtured in silence.

Our own traditions carry this wisdom. The Ojeh masquerade once reminded us of it with haunting clarity. At a burial play, a long white cloth would be spread upon the ground—pure, silent, eternal. The masquerade would slowly wrap himself within it before disappearing. It was more than ritual; it was a sermon without words. The cloth was earth, body, and shroud at once, showing that every life ultimately returns to silence. The drums fade. Only memory dances on.

Even music teaches this truth. In Sona Jobarteh’s Saya, one hears both lament and counsel—a mother’s melody instructing her child that to live well is to die prepared. Her strings do not mourn death; they remind us that remembrance is mercy, and memory, worship.

The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said, “Take advantage of five before five: your youth before old age, your health before sickness, your wealth before poverty, your free time before preoccupation, and your life before death.” Death is certain. Only its timing is unknown. So why squander our brief lives on envy, greed, or hatred? Pulling others down never lifts us higher; it merely exposes the decay within.

Time itself bears witness: “By time, indeed mankind is in loss, except those who believe and do good works and encourage truth and patience.” (Al-Asr, 103:1–3)

Every accident, every funeral, every loss is not only pain—it is mercy. A call to awaken before it is too late. To forgive before we are forgiven. To plant goodness before we are buried in it. We are tested not by how long we live, but by how well.

Serve while you can. Love while you can. Repent before the soil becomes your bed, your pillow, and your blanket.

The reminders will keep coming—until one day, the reminder will be you. When that day arrives, nothing will remain but your deeds. Life is fleeting. Power fades. Wealth vanishes. Only goodness endures.

May our reminders lead us not to fear, but to faith—and may what we leave behind shine like a candle lit for those who come after us.